


Scarlet Cascade

by tricksterity



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, TW: cutting, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-10
Updated: 2012-10-10
Packaged: 2017-11-16 00:44:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/533604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tricksterity/pseuds/tricksterity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles hadn't always been a cutter, but there was just something eerily beautiful about watching his lifeblood drip down his leg, the only thing keeping his meatsack of a body alive. MAJOR TRIGGER WARNINGS.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scarlet Cascade

**Author's Note:**

> In case you can't tell there are MAJOR FREAKING TRIGGER WARNINGS ON THIS. Cutting and stuff that's involved with it.

Stiles hadn't always been a cutter. In fact, he didn't even know what there was a name for what he did until he stumbled across the term somewhere in the dark alleyways of the Internet. It wasn't an attention seeking thing (which was why he mainly cut on his thighs, not his wrists) and it wasn't anything to do with dealing with mental pain – it was to gain control over his panic attacks.

They started after his mother died and the only way he could calm down from his panic attacks was to focus on something else; namely the scarlet blood that ran down his pale skin. It still fascinated him that it was really the only thing keeping his meat sack of a body alive. No one knew about his cutting – not the doctors, not Scott and definitely not his dad. Gradually it had just turned into a coping mechanism in between all of the Adderall-fuelled highs and the constant talking that came with his ADHD. Stiles sometimes wondered if his cutting had anything to do with the way it had spilt out of his mother's mouth as the cancer finally took hold of her. He had watched with the same sick rapt fascination as the doctors had run about, yelling for machines and medication while Stiles had watched from the other side of the glass with his father.

There was just something eerily beautiful about watching his lifeblood drip down his leg, something so completely consuming that Stiles completely forgot about his panic attack. And with the latest shit going on – Alphas and Kanimas and Gerard fucking Argent ('fucking' as an intensifier, not a verb), Stiles was having mild panic attacks nearly every day.

Today, however, had been a day that Stiles never reached his leg, the straight razor slipping silently across his delicate wrist, joining the other four scars there. He cut just deep enough to draw blood but shallow enough that he wouldn't bleed out or nick a vein. He crouched in the corner of the shower, watching the coppery-smelling liquid swirl down the drain, his already wet lacrosse gear sticking to his skin as the warm cascade of water poured down around him.

It wasn't every day that you were stuck in a pool for two hours, treading water in your heavy clothes and keeping a very heavy, dead-weight Alpha above the water while a lizard attempted to eat you. He'd managed to keep the panic attack deep down inside him, knowing that if he started to hyperventilate in the water, he would drown both himself and Derek; but as soon as he'd got home he fell into the shower and dragged that blessed blade across his skin, breathing shallowly and far too often to be healthy.

Stiles hardly ever cut his wrists, which was why there were only four – no, five – cuts there. He didn't want people to know, he didn't want anyone, especially his dad, knowing that he was so weak and pathetic that the only way he could calm himself down was to slide a blade across his skin. He knew he shouldn't be doing it, knew it was probably bad for him, but the cuts just kept multiplying, and he knew that soon he'd have to move permanently to his wrists…

"Damn it," Stiles sighed, turning off the water and throwing his wet gear into the sink; he'd deal with that the next day. He put a bandage over his cut to make sure that the bleeding didn't continue into the night and cover his sheets like it had once, and fell into his bed. He pulled the covers over him, not caring that he was still partially damp, and fell asleep to nightmares of red eyes and scales.

He should've known that getting involved with a werewolf pack would end with him getting hurled at walls. He was used to it when Derek would shove him against them and growl in his face (in two very different ways, now), but being lifted in the air and thrown clear through an entire warehouse and feeling something crack when he hit the concrete – that was something different. Something not fun, and something very, very painful. He landed awkwardly on the floor with limbs splayed in every direction, fighting to stay conscious.

He could hear voices yelling out for him, but they were deep and slow, like he was underwater. A deep voice that he recognized all too well spoke into his ear, but Stiles couldn't hear what he said, but he understood the meaning. Stay awake, for God's sake stay awake because if you don't, you will fall asleep and never wake up again. Stiles thought he'd been in this situation way too often for a sixteen-year-old boy.

His hearing came back a few seconds later with a pop! Snarls and growls were resonating throughout the warehouse and Stiles wondered who was winning – the wolves or Gerard. He wondered if Jackson had grown wings yet.

"Stiles," he heard; a rumbling voice in his ears that he knew all too well.

"D'rek," he mumbled in reply, opening his eyes to see the blurry form of Derek Hale. His body felt numb, he didn't feel any pain and even though his fuzzy mind he knew that it was a bad thing, being unable to feel pain meant that he was in shock or going into shock. "Was' going on?" he asked.

"Gerard's dead, everyone's okay and Jackson's no longer the Kanima, we managed to revert him to his werewolf form," Derek explained. Stiles realized that there was no longer loud snarling, instead a few whimpers echoed out through the warehouse every few seconds. It took him even longer to realize that they weren't whimpers of pain, but whimpers of fear – fear that he was going to die. This was not how it was supposed to end. "We have to get you to the hospital, where are you hurt?" Derek asked calmly, although it seemed Derek was the King of Calm.

"D'no, can't feel it," Stiles explained, and a few more whimpers sounded near him, and Stiles dragged his eyes around to see the forms of the pack surrounding them. "Tha's bad," he said.

"It's okay, Stilinski, I've called an ambulance to pick you up, but we're going to have to move you to another room so the paramedics won't see what's gone on here," Chris Argent explained. "But it's going to hurt. Derek, you have to be as gentle as you can and don't jostle him," he said. "He might not feel the pain now, but he will soon."

Derek took his advice and slowly, gently reached his arms under Stiles and lifted him up, and Stiles leant his head against Derek's chest, not being able to hold it up himself. Chris had been right – Derek readjusted Stiles and he cried out when he felt something pierce his side, and the fuzzy shock seemed to wear off in an instant.

"Oh my god I can feel something sticking out of me oh god all my ribs must be broken and what about my legs and my arms Jesus Christ this really hurts, this really fucking hurts," Stiles rambled, his eyes screwed up tightly. In the distance, the sirens of the ambulance could be heard.

"You're going to be fine, Stiles, just calm down and take deep breaths," Scott said from his right. "The ambulance is going to be here soon, you're going to be fine and you aren't going to die because being thrown across the room is nothing to someone who plays lacrosse, right?" he said, trying to be calm like Derek but Stiles could hear the wavy undertones of his best friend's voice.

"This is all my fault…" Allison breathed quietly, and Stiles looked to her. Allison was pale (or paler than usual) and seemed to be in shock herself as she stood quietly next to Scott. "If I hadn't been pulled in by Gerard, none of this would have happened and you wouldn't be…" she cut herself off as she sobbed into Scott's shoulder, and he wrapped his arms tightly around her. Stiles wasn't sure what happened next, because the world disappeared shortly as Derek began walking and Stiles could feel that there was definitely lots of bleeding coming from his side.

When he was next aware, he was looking directly at a white roof, with people talking either side of him and a hand clutching his tightly. The sirens were near deafening and he realized that he must be in an ambulance. He was having trouble keeping his eyes open.

"D'rek?" Stiles mumbled, and the hand on his tightened. "Is it okay t' sleep now?" he asked.

"Yeah, Little Red, you can sleep," Derek said, surprisingly fondly, and Stiles smiled as he shut his eyes and fell unconscious.

Stiles was in and out of consciousness for what he assumed were the next couple of days, he never opened his eyes but it seemed as though there was always at least one person in the hospital room with him. Some days it was Erica, Isaac or Boyd, sometimes it was Danny and even Lydia and Jackson came once. However it was usually his father, Derek or Scott that Stiles felt next to him. He would be conscious just long enough for someone to slip an ice cube between his lips so his mouth wasn't so dry, and then he'd succumb to the morphine.

The day he finally, properly, woke up from his comatose-like state, Mrs McCall informed him that it was his fourth day in the hospital, and that everyone was in the hallway. Apparently Derek had smelled that Stiles was recovering, and alerted everyone. Stiles was shocked that Mrs McCall knew about everything, but what shocked him even more was that his father did. Apparently after he arrived at the hospital and saw him bloodied and unconscious on the bed, he cornered Scott and guilted him into telling him everything.

"Christ, Stiles, why didn't you tell me?" the Sheriff had said the moment he burst into the hospital room. "You nearly died, why didn't you say anything?" Stiles felt the familiar guilt well up in him and he smiled weakly at his dad.

"I didn't want you worrying, Dad. After Mom… I knew that if I told you that I was in danger every day that you wouldn't let me help out, you wouldn't want to lose me too. I didn't want to burden you with the reality of this town," Stiles explained with a croaky voice. His mouth and throat were still dry, despite the ice cubes that Mrs McCall had been feeding him, and he hadn't spoken a word in four days.

"Stiles, you know you can talk to me about anything… god, you could've died! I'd rather know how it really would have happened than another lie," the Sheriff said, collapsing into the chair next to Stiles and grabbed his son's hand. "I don't know what would happen if you left me too." Stiles felt his eyes tear up and fought to keep them in, not wanting to cry and make this all worse for his father.

"I'm sorry, Dad. I really, really am, but I have to help them out, I have to help Scott because he's my best friend and I have to help Derek and the pack and please don't forbid me from doing this, because I can do it and I can help people, like you Dad," Stiles said breathlessly, a single traitor tear sliding down his pale face. His father looked up into his eyes, and after a few seconds he sighed and fell back into his chair.

"I can't ask you to abandon your friends Stiles, and I know you've got five werewolves protecting you, but… just be careful, alright? I don't want to ever see you like this again," he said sternly. "You took ten years off my life! All of that hard work with the healthy food, and you go and do this," the Sheriff laughed unamusedly.

"We can always get back onto that," Stiles said with a smile. "And no more sneaking pies in after work!" he scolded, and his father finally cracked a smile.

"Sure, kid, anything you say. Now, I think there's some overactive puppies that want to see you," the Sheriff joked, and Stiles could hear Derek's growl through the wall. "And yes, that includes you Hale, we're going to have a very stern talk after this regarding you and my son," he said as the pack entered the room. Stiles laughed and blushed slightly, but soon he had the entire pack surrounding him – Derek, Scott, Allison, Erica, Isaac, Boyd, Jackson and Lydia. They were all wearing expressions of relief, annoyance and happiness.

They talked and talked for hours until Stiles felt himself yawning, his lungs sucking more oxygen, and Derek shoved them all out of the room. As soon as the door shut behind them, Derek's shoulders tensed and Stiles knew that Derek was glaring. There was a long, tense silence that would usually be filled with Stiles babbling; but it felt like that simple few seconds lasted an eternity and just when Stiles thought he couldn't take it any more, Derek spoke.

"How long have you been cutting, Stiles?" he asked, still not facing Stiles. The human in question blanched and darted his eyes down to his thighs that were still under the blankets and covered by his hospital gown – there was no way that Derek could know. He'd never seen that much of Stiles, despite how far they'd gone. Stiles refused to answer, and when Derek finally turned around, his eyes were tinged slightly scarlet in a mixture of sadness, anger and something Stiles couldn't identify. It was the most emotion he had ever seen on Derek's face at once, and it took Stiles' breath away.

"Stiles," Derek growled. The Alpha approached his bedside and gently lifted up his left hand, the one with the IV drip inserted into his hand… and the five horizontal scars that lay across his skin, the one from before the hospital finally scabbing over. Stiles swallowed thickly and refused to look at his boyfriend, anywhere but the unreadable eyes of Derek Hale. A gentle, calloused finger ran over the newest scar and Stiles flinched.

"For God's sake Stiles, how long has this been going on? Why?" Derek asked, using his other hand to gently take Stiles' jaw and turned it to face him. Derek seemed to know how fragile and vulnerable Stiles was, despite all of the laughing and jokes and babbling and everything that he used to keep his mask in place. "It can't have been long, you've only got five, but…" Derek said, and then trailed off as he inhaled, and Stiles looked guiltily, almost subconsciously down to his thighs. He wondered if werewolves could smell guilt. Derek reached his hands down and lifted the blanket down to the end of the bed, and trailed his hand so softly it felt like a breeze up Stiles' leg. He didn't even know the werewolf could be so gentle – he thought Derek Hale was made of growling, brooding and wall-slamming.

Apparently not.

Stiles clenched his fists together as Derek gripped the bottom of the hospital gown and moved it higher up Stiles' legs until it rested in his lap and there, exposed to the all-seeing eyes of Derek Hale, was eight years of cuts. Eight years of blade slicing through skin, eight years of panic attacks and scarlet cascades and weakness. Eight years of pathetic, ugly, weakness. His skin was like a battleground, the pale flesh marred by what seemed to be hundreds of cuts in every direction, moulding his skin from smooth porcelain into a gory mess that stretched inches down. Derek gently grazed a finger over some of the cuts, and Stiles bit his lower lip and let out a whimper, closing his eyes tightly. Derek's breath caught as his eyes caught every little detail that Stiles' human eyes couldn't see. He could probably see every broken pore, the depth of each cut, how long ago it had been – he could probably read everything about Stiles' life from the sliced up skin.

"P-Panic attacks," Stiles breathed out. "It started with my panic attacks. I had to focus on something else, so I cut. It was easy, it worked and it was distracting. The only thing keeping my body alive, knowing that one slip up and I could be dead, bleeding out with no one even knowing." Stiles still refused to open his eyes. Derek took his finger off Stiles' scars, and didn't move. The human refused to open his eyes, he didn't want to see the pity and the sympathy and disappointment in Derek's eyes, he didn't want the werewolf to know how close he was to cryi- oh.

He felt warm lips pressed to his thigh, so tender and sweet that Stiles thought that he might explode. Those lips continued to move, kissing every inch of his scarred thigh, and then moved to the next one and Stiles felt like he couldn't even breathe. He felt like he was being worshipped, like he was a revered god and Derek wanted to give himself to him. Derek then took his arm and kissed each scar on his wrist, all five, lingering especially long on the most recent cut. Then, the warms lips pressed against his as a hand carressed his face, and the tears began to fall. When Derek pulled away, Stiles opened his eyes and through blurry vision, saw a small smile on Derek's face.

"W-wh… how…?" Stiles mumbled, and Derek pressed a kiss against Stiles' forehead.

"I've been in your position, too," Derek said. "I did it hundreds of times after the fire, as deep as I wanted because it would heal no matter what. Laura didn't know, and you can't physically see the scars, but they're there. I know what it's like to need to feel something other than panic and anger and despair," the Alpha said, probably the longest sentence he had ever spoken to his mate. "They don't make you weak, Stiles," and Stiles looked into Derek's warm hazel eyes that were so completely, utterly and devastatingly understanding. "They're battle scars. All heroes have them."

"I'm not a hero," Stiles said, repeating the words he told his father.

"Neither am I," Derek said, a small smirk appearing on his face. "But we have them anyway."


End file.
